


Closer Look

by LearnedFoot



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Frottage, Light Angst, M/M, No Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Peter Parker Makes the First Move, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Tony Stark Has Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-01-13 08:48:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18465547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/pseuds/LearnedFoot
Summary: Peter’s just a high school senior. Normally, he’d call himself crazy for even imagining Mr. Stark couldpossibly. But he knows what he saw. He knows what it means.The question he keeps asking himself is: what’s he going to do about it?





	Closer Look

**Author's Note:**

  * For [floweringbloom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/floweringbloom/gifts).



> I found your sign-up super inspiring. This is a blend of Peter as the aggressor + Tony having lots of guilt + Tony being a mess but Peter wanting him anyway + just a tiny bit of Peter being into Tony’s workshop/tech. I really hope you enjoy!
> 
> Written before _Endgame_ so no spoilers/take it as a post-IW AU.

Peter has been into Mr. Stark for as long as he can remember, probably for longer than he really knew what being “into” someone meant. Since long before he was _Mr. Stark_ : mentor, suit-builder, sometimes even, when he squints just right, maybe kind of, a little bit, friend; back when he was only _Tony Stark_ : Iron Man, genius, unattainable hero.

Mr. Stark, on the other hand, has not always been into him. That’s definitely true. But it’s not true anymore. Peter’s not sure when the change happened, but he knows when he noticed: last week, at their weekly Saturday lab session at the Avengers compound.

Mr. Stark had been showing off the latest upgrade to the Iron Man suit, Vibranium integrated into the nanobots. He demonstrated with one hand of the suit, wiggling his fingers and twisting his wrist, flaunting how the bots flowed and formed new shapes, more responsive than ever. Peter, fascinated, not really thinking, had run his fingers over the metal, and then around the seam where the glove ended and Mr. Stark’s arm began, brushing the skin there as he explored.

He really hadn’t meant anything by it, but he’d heard a small hitch in Mr. Stark’s voice, so faint a normal person probably would’ve missed it. When he looked up, he’d been met with wide, hungry eyes. Mr. Stark had cleared his throat and continued with his explanation of the science as if nothing had happened, but he’d sounded faintly strained.

Peter’s not normally the kind of person who’s confident that other people are into him. He still remembers his amazement when Liz agreed to go to Homecoming with him, and this isn’t some popular girl he’s talking about, this is _Tony Stark_. He was literally labeled the World’s Most Eligible Bachelor after he and Ms. Potts had their final, very public breakup. Peter’s just a high school senior. Normally, he’d call himself crazy for even imagining Mr. Stark could _possibly_.

But he knows what he saw. He knows what it means.

The question he keeps asking himself is: what’s he going to do about it?

***

At their next lab session, he almost chickens out and does nothing at all. But then he remembers the hunger in those eyes, and works up the nerve to touch Mr. Stark. On purpose. Nothing too obvious, nothing that can’t be denied. Just: skimming his hand across his back as he walks by to grab a pen off his desk. Bumping their shoulders together as he looks at Mr. Stark’s tablet, filled with designs for a new, cheap, energy-efficient car. Leaning in, letting his breath hit Mr. Stark’s ear as he gives input.

As Peter is about to “accidentally” brush their hands together, Mr. Stark grabs his wrist. Peter meets his eyes, sees that hunger there again.

“Kid.” Mr. Stark’s voice shakes, but he doesn’t drop his hold on Peter’s wrist. “What’re you doing?”

Oh. Peter had meant to be subtle, to build up to this moment over weeks. Maybe months. Whoops.

“I…” He wants to retreat, take it back, pretend he has no idea what he’s talking about. But he’s come this far, right? And the expression on Mr. Stark’s face is somewhere between pained and longing. Not angry. Definitely not angry. So instead of bailing, he pushes forward. “Isn’t it obvious what I’m doing?”

Mr. Stark sighs, sound ripped from his core.

“Yeah, it is.” He finally drops Peter’s wrist, bringing his hand to his own head, massaging his temples. “I can’t. You must know that.”

“But—”

“Pete.” His tone is sharp, definitive. “ _I can’t_.”

“But the age of consent—” Peter starts, because he’s looked it up, and it’s seventeen. He’s seventeen.

“Peter, _please_.” Now he sounds desperate. He points at Peter’s personal desk, on the other side of the room. “Go. Work on your web shooters or something. Just… _stop_. Please.”

Defeated, Peter sulks across the room and sinks into his chair. They barely talk for the rest of the day.

***

But as Peter turns it over in his head in the following week, picking apart every inch of the disastrous conversation, he keeps coming back to one thought: “I can’t” isn’t the same as “I don’t want to.”

In fact, it seems like the opposite.

And despite his reputation as a responsible kid, he’s never been very good at following the rules. Not when the rules are stupid.

***

So the next Saturday, he marches straight into the lab, grabs Mr. Stark, and kisses him before he can say anything. He tenses under Peter’s touch, entire body stiff for a moment, and then grabs him back, shoving him against the nearest desk, one hand winding into his hair, the other clutching his hip.

Even though he started it, Peter had no idea it would feel this good. That it even _could_ feel this good. The fingers running between his curls grasp and tug, sending goosebumps exploding over his skin. The mouth against his is demanding, tongue pressing into him, beard rough against his chin, teeth nipping at his lips. The little jolts of pain make his dick twitch and _damn_ , he didn’t even know he liked that. He definitely likes it.

He realizes he’s forgotten to do anything with his own hands. That’s dumb, so he brings them around Mr. Stark’s back, gripping his neck, pulling him closer. That earns an approving moan against his lips. The sound runs through his body, pure arousal distilled, pouring over every inch of him.

Their hips brush; Peter feels Mr. Stark’s dick heavy against his thigh and _holy shit_ , Tony Stark is hard because of him. He did that. He lets out a sound that’s something like a whimper, bucking forward, and can’t even find it in himself to be embarrassed when his erection brushes against Mr. Stark’s leg, stiff and obvious.

“Jesus, kid,” Mr. Stark growls, shifting slightly so their dicks meet; even through their pants the contact is extraordinary, pleasure so intense Peter momentarily feels like he’s left his body. “I thought I said no.”

“Actually, you said you can’t,” Peter corrects. He rubs, increasing the pressure between them. “Feels like you can.”

“That was awful.” Mr. Stark switches to sucking on the place where Peter’s jaw meets his neck. No one’s ever done that before; it leaves him speechless, precome leaking from his cock, slick and wet in his underwear. “Really obvious. You need better material.”

“I dunno,” Peter manages to pant out as Mr. Stark continues to work at his neck. His hips thrust forward involuntarily, longing for more. More contact, more pressure, _something_. The movement makes Mr. Stark gasp against his ear, low and throaty. “Seems to be working fine.”

“Cocky little shit,” Mr. Stark whispers, but it’s laced with affection. He kisses Peter’s cheek, rocking against him.

“Learned from the best.” Peter meets his thrusts, eager.

Mr. Stark stops moving, letting Peter set the pace, encouraging him with sounds: grunts and groans, murmured praise, _fuck kid_ , and _oh my god_. With the fingers digging into his hip and neck, with the sweat staining his shirt and the way his cock throbs as Peter ruts against him. With the way he kisses him, tongue sweeping through his mouth.

He’s everywhere; Peter can feel his touch even where they don’t have contact, entire body alive with it. It’s so much, his senses can’t keep track. In far too little time his release barrels down on him, so fast he can’t resist.

“Mr. Stark,” he manages to warn, movements losing any purpose beyond pure want. He clings to the body in front of him, rubbing haphazardly, chasing desire. “I’m gonna—fuck, _please_ —”

He doesn’t know what he’s begging for, but Mr. Stark gives it to him anyway, fisting his hair, pulling his neck sideways, whispering into his ear, “You’re perfect, Peter. You’re so fucking perfect.”

Peter comes with a cry. It’s nothing like the orgasms he’s given himself; it’s so much more, ecstasy pulled from somewhere deep within him. He loses track of what’s happening, barely registers when Mr. Stark groans deep and heavy, bucking against him, a second warm spot growing between them.

They come down together, panting and nuzzling, hands finding each other. Peter feels like every nerve in his body is on high alert; the air is too much and too little all at once, senses gone haywire as they reorient. By the time he’s able to piece together what’s happening around him, Mr. Stark is pulling away.

He still doesn’t look angry. He does, however, look shocked.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he mumbles, and to Peter’s horror he sounds miserable. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—”

Peter’s mind pushes through the fuzz of his post-orgasm high to realize this is bad. This is really bad. This is not how this is supposed to go at all.

“Sir, there’s nothing to be sorry about,” he protests. He reaches out, meaning to—what? Kiss him, hold him, do _something_ to show this wasn’t a bad thing, it was the opposite of a bad thing, it was everything he wants. But Mr. Stark is already stumbling back, stunned.

“Just—just, stay here for the rest of the afternoon,” he says, waving at the lab. “Do your homework. Or work on your web shooters. Whatever. Happy’ll take you home later.”

“Where will you be?” Peter can hear the waver in his own voice, feel the tears building.

“Not here,” Mr. Stark replies with a kind of desperate insistence, before turning and striding out of the lab so quickly he might as well have run.

***

Peter tries to do what Mr. Stark said, but his mind won’t focus on his homework; chemistry equations keep going blurry and crooked. He can’t escape the memory of fingers in his hair, down his back, dick pressed against his. How can he ignore what just happened when he can still feel it, underwear drying stiff and uncomfortable, stain clear on his jeans?

And worst of all: the haunting image of Mr. Stark, defeated and despairing. Peter has seen that expression on his face before, after lost battles, injured friends. It wasn’t ever supposed to be because of him.

Giving up on his work, Peter decides to explore the lab. He’s never had a chance to poke around unsupervised. The place is covered in half-completed projects, mostly repairs and upgrades to various items belonging to the Avengers team: cracked armor, advanced guns, a new kind of shielding tech for cars. Now that Mr. Stark and King T’Challa have a deal, he’s been incorporating Vibranium into everything, and it shows; it has a subtle but distinctive smell, a peculiar kind of metallic that permeates the room.

He should be fascinated, normally would want to spend fifteen minutes examining each piece, but right now all he can do is think about the hands that made these things trailing across his body, pulling him close. It fills him with a sad longing, until he’s half-hard and on the verge of sobbing.

He’s decided there’s no way this day is going to be anything other than completely miserable, and is debating asking F.R.I.D.A.Y. if she can call Happy early, when he notices a set of blueprints hidden under a stack of papers on Mr. Stark’s desk. Just the edge is visible, but he catches sight of the Spider-symbol. Despite everything, he’s curious enough to pull the papers out, wondering what upgrades Mr. Stark is planning for him. They haven’t talked about anything.

 _Spider-Man: Stealth_ is scrawled across the top of the papers in Mr. Stark’s bold handwriting. Peter scrunches his nose, confused. A few minutes pouring over the plans reveal this is a totally new suit that Mr. Stark has never mentioned. It blends his normal suit’s flexibility with some of the Iron Spider’s extra gadgets, plus, as the name suggests, special stealth features: custom-designed black fabric, goggles to enhance his already decent night vision, other things he can’t place without more context.

Across the bottom is written, _Birthday present? Graduation gift?_

He feels his lip tremble; he really will cry if he doesn’t get himself under control.

He has to fix this.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.?” he asks. “Where’s Mr. Stark?”

“Mr. Stark is in his private quarters.”

Right. Great. The one place in the compound he doesn’t have access to. On the other hand…

He looks over at the web shooters he’s supposed to be upgrading. Yeah, that’ll work.

***

He crawls across the floor-to-ceiling windows of Mr. Stark’s private living area and spots him immediately, sitting alone in an armchair, staring at a tablet in his lap. The first thing he notices is the drink in his hand. Next, the half-empty bottle at his feet. Finally, the red rims around his eyes, as if he’s been crying.

He raps on the window. Mr. Stark looks up, startled, and frowns, mouthing something. Peter can’t hear him through the thick glass, but the message is clear: “Go away.”

Peter shakes his head. He holds up a piece of paper that he brought with him for this very reason. It says, _Can we talk?_

He can see Mr. Stark’s brain working, probably running through his options, trying to figure out how much trouble it would be to get Peter to leave. Finally, he looks up and says something. He must’ve told F.R.I.D.A.Y. to open the window, because next thing Peter knows the panel he’s on slides down, giving him enough room to scramble in and fall to the floor.

“Peter,” Mr. Stark says, standing, placing the tablet on the chair. His voice is flat. Now that they’re in the same room, it’s clear that he’s definitely been crying. His eyes look damp, and his hair is ruffled, as if he’s run his hands through it. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Why not?” Peter steps closer, wondering what would happen if he just kissed him again. That hadn’t been his plan, but now that he sees him it’s hard to think about anything else.

“Because—” He cuts himself short, muscle in his jaw twitching.

“Because?” Peter repeats, getting closer.

“Nope,” Mr. Stark mutters under his breath. Suddenly, he’s turning, as if he’s about to dash away again. Acting on instinct, Peter stops him with a flick of his wrist, webbing his hand to the chair.

Shit. He probably shouldn’t have done that.

“Seriously?” Mr. Stark yanks at the sticky substance, but it’s useless. “Uncool.”

“Uncool?” Suddenly, Peter feels annoyed. This really isn’t fair. He knows he’s the one who pushed things, but still. Mr. Stark was right there with him, until he wasn’t. “Uncool is doing _that_ , in the lab, and then running away!”

Mr. Stark looks devastated again, and maybe also scared as Peter continues to get closer. “I know. I know, I’m sorry. I—I shouldn’t have.”

“Shouldn’t have done it, or shouldn’t have run away?” Peter asks, coming to a stop with less than arm’s length between them. Close enough that Mr. Stark could reach out and touch him if he wanted to.

“Either. I _definitely_ shouldn’t have done it. Once I did I shouldn’t have run away.” He gestures at the alcohol which, this close, Peter can see—and smell—is vodka. “I’m not known for my good coping mechanisms.”

Peter glances at the bottle, then back at Mr. Stark, whose heart is pounding, loud in the quiet room. He places a shaking hand on his chest, feeling it beat. Mr. Stark closes his eyes and sucks in air through his nose, making a small, broken sound. “Peter, _please_.”

“Please what, sir?”

Mr. Stark gasps in reply. When Peter glances down, he sees the outline of his cock, hard and straining against his pants. He lowers his hand and, shocked at his own boldness, grazes his fingers along that bulge. Mr. Stark whines, leaning against the chair he’s still webbed to. His free hand grabs Peter’s arm, holding him still, but not pushing him away.

“Do you want me to stop?” Peter asks. “Because it doesn’t seem like you want me to stop.”

Mr. Stark opens his eyes, meets Peter’s gaze, finally does shove his hand aside. “What I want and what’s actually a good idea are two very different things.”

“Disagree,” Peter says. He places his hand at Mr. Stark’s hip instead, sneaking his fingers under his shirt. His skin is hot. “I think what you want is an excellent idea. Really great. Brilliant.”

“Yeah, well, you’re a high schooler. Not a demographic known for great decision-making skills.” And yet, his hand mirrors Peter’s, landing on his hip, curling into his belt loop, pulling him closer. “I’m a bad idea, Peter. Look at me.”

Peter does, taking in the red around his eyes, the worn lines of his face. The alcohol on his breath. The grey in his hair, so much heavier than when they first met.

He wants it all.

“Okay,” he says gently. “I am looking at you. And you know what I see? I see the man who saved my life.” He brings his free hand to where the arc reactor used to sit, spreading his palm. “I see a man who saved the world. Over and over again.”

“You’re not looking close enough.”

“Fine.” Peter moves from hip to belt buckle. It’s tricky to maneuver the latch with one hand, but he manages. “I see a man who messes up. A lot.” He gets the buckle undone and pulls the belt off, throwing it to the side. “And I see a man who keeps trying anyway. How’s that?”

Mr. Stark is staring at him with something that could be hope, or maybe awe. But what he says is, “Rose-colored glasses, kid.”

With a frustrated groan Peter goes for the button. “I also see an idiot,” he snaps. “An idiot who’s apparently forgotten that I’ve fought villains and aliens and _died_ and came back.” He pulls down the zipper. “And am totally qualified to know what I want.”

And then, because this is starting to feel like an all or nothing kind of situation, he drops to his knees. “I also see a man whose dick I really want to suck. So, what do you think?”

Mr. Stark’s hand weaves into his hair, and Peter relaxes. That has to be a good sign.

“One day you’re going to realize I’m a mess, and you deserve better,” Mr. Stark says. But he lifts his hips helpfully when Peter goes to pull down his pants. He gets them far enough off to release his cock: thick, not too long, throbbing and glossy with precome. Amazing. Peter wraps his hand around it, and Mr. Stark breathes in sharply. “This could end with you hating me.”  

“Doubt it,” Peter says, beginning to stroke. He looks up, meets the eyes staring down at him, hooded with lust. “I think you’re underestimating how much I like you, sir.”

The hand in his hair tightens, and Peter feels his own dick harden, encouraged. He lets out a little moan, stroking faster.

“This could end with you breaking my heart,” Mr. Stark suggests, but it doesn’t sound like a real protest.

“Maybe.” Peter leans forward, burying his face in the tight curls around his dick, inhaling the scent of him. “I promise to make it worth the risk.”

And then he takes him into his mouth. He’s only done this once before, a fumbled attempt in a bathroom with someone he barely knew at a party after junior prom, but he tries to make up for inexperience with enthusiasm, stretching his mouth wide and swallowing him down.

“Fuck,” Mr. Stark stutters. “You win.”

He tastes salty, thick and heavy on Peter’s tongue. The hand in his hair guides him gently, suggesting a rhythm he quickly learns to follow. This is so much better than the time in the bathroom; his own cock throbs as he moves, bobbing his head, breathing through his nose as his throat adjusts to the dick hitting it. He loves how Mr. Stark smells, even loves gagging around him.

“Holy shit,” Mr. Stark gasps. “God, _Peter_.”

Peter’s dick jerks at hearing his name said with such approval, precome staining his underwear, _again_. He picks up the pace, ignoring the way his jaw protests, drowning in the intimacy of it.

Mr. Stark’s words quickly trail off into moans; his dick begins to pulse. He mumbles a warning before grabbing the back of Peter’s head, pushing deep, holding him steady as he spills into his mouth with quick, jerky thrusts. Peter gulps and chokes as a burst of warm, slightly sour come fills his throat; he has to cough and pull away when it’s over, but he manages to swallow, overwhelmed and proud of himself, and desperately, desperately turned on.

The hand in his hair tugs upwards, encouraging him to stand. As soon as he does, Mr. Stark drags him into a kiss, long and grateful. When they break apart, he’s smiling.

“Are you done arguing with me about this?” Peter asks, grinning back. He already knows the answer, and he feels giddy about it, heady with success.

Mr. Stark rolls his eyes. “Don’t be too proud of yourself, hot shot. I’m very easy to talk into bad ideas.”

Peter kisses him again. “Okay, but one day when I get you to admit this was actually a _great_ idea, do I get to be proud of myself then?”

That’s met with a laugh, deep and joyous. Mr. Stark grabs his hand and brings it to his mouth, pressing his lips to each finger, one after the other. “Sure, it’s a deal.” He waves at the webbing still holding him to the chair. “Now, will you please undo this so I can return the favor?”

“Yeah,” Peter agrees, entire body buzzing. “Yeah, that works for me.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, feedback is very much appreciated and cherished.
> 
> Re-dated because this was an exchange fic, and now authors have been revealed. Sorry if you'd seen it already!


End file.
